


Lost to Time

by Moontune



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Divergence, Characters to be added, F/M, Family Dynamics, M/M, Mild Language, Modern Setting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Slow To Update, Step-siblings, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontune/pseuds/Moontune
Summary: Not a lot was known about the old studio just outside your hometown - according to all known records, it didn't even exist. But it was well known within your family circle that you don't go near it, no matter what. It was a rule ingrained into your mind since you were a child.Your step-sister, on the other hand, took this warning with a grain of salt and unwittingly dragged you into an inky hell you weren't prepared to face.
Relationships: Sammy Lawrence/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	1. Ghosts of the Past

This was a really stupid idea. Not that it was your idea, of course – oh no, an idea this idiotic could only have been dreamt up by your dumbass sister.

Of _course_ she wanted to go ghost hunting in an abandoned studio with her dumb rowdy friends. And she just _had_ to drag you along too; after all, who else was gonna keep everyone from getting killed because none of them seemed to learn the first rule of “how to not end up dying like a side character in a horror movie”?

“Relax.” She said, smiling at you from the passenger seat of your car as her three friends talked about proper etiquette when using a Ouija Board. “We won’t be staying in for too long, just until midnight. Probably.”

“I'm not worried about how long we’ll be there, Sarah.” You huffed, watching the road as the studio came into view. “We shouldn’t be coming here at all. I don’t know what dad told you, but he always told _me_ not to go anywhere near here.”

You heard her let out an exasperated groan at your answer, and the car seat squeaked a bit as she leaned back. Slowing down and signalling, you pulled into the overgrown and barely-existent parking lot.

“Look, I don’t care what dad says! A weird old studio that no one remembers? No records of its existence in the city archives? This place is a ghost goldmine!”

“I can’t find anyone who’s investigated this place before,” Jackson added, speaking up from the backseat. “We’ll be the first to cover this place!”

Turning so your car’s headlights lit up the front door, you set it to park and stared at the rotting, chipped wood of the entrance. There were no windows that you could see; and honestly, you were surprised the place hadn’t collapsed from the lack of maintenance over the… _however_ many years it’s been standing.

“Well, maybe there’s a _reason_ no one’s investigated this place, ever think of that?” You retorted, turning off the ignition and unlocking the car doors.

The four of them all got out, bringing their cameras and other cases of weird ghost tech with them. You took a deep breath, grounding yourself as you left the safety of your car, shivering slightly at the cold night air. Once they all had their stuff, you sighed and approached the door as the group followed close behind you.

Every instinct you had told you to turn around and run far, far away from this place. But you didn’t have that option – you couldn’t exactly leave these guys behind, no matter how much you wanted to. Grabbing the rusty doorknob, you grit your teeth at the feeling and twisted the knob, half expecting it to break off in your hand.

Much to your surprise, however, the doorknob turned rather smoothly and opened just fine for the five of you.

The interior was old and musty, but it didn’t quite match the downright hazardous state of the exterior. Chipped wooden planks made up the floors, and the walls had some cartoon posters that were probably from the 30’s, from what you could tell.

God, this place _was_ old.

“Alright, let’s get to work!” Jenna piped up, pushing past both you and Sarah with her Ouija Board and Spirit Box in hand. You stepped to the side, letting the others past you as well. You watched as they all entered an open room, and followed them as the door closed behind you.

Maybe you were paranoid, but you could’ve sworn you heard the “click!” of a lock as it shut. You couldn’t help the chill that crept down your spine, listening as your sister and her friends set up their cameras and got started on their little video.

You could hardly pay attention to what they were all saying. All you could focus on was the rising sense of dread you felt the longer you were in that building. All of your father’s warnings echoed in your head on an endless loop, only feeding into your unease.

Once all the cameras in the area were set up, you watched as Jenna and Jackson set up the Ouija Board while Sarah and Charlie told you that they were going to explore around a bit with the Spirit Box, with GoPros strapped to their chests. 

“Just scream if you need me.” Was all you said in response as they walked off to the hallway on the right side of the room.

You looked down at Jenna and Jackson, both sat across from each other as they asked if any spirits were around. Sighing softly, you turned your attention to the turning reels on the wall, with the name “Joey Drew Studios” plastered on them. Well, at least now you knew the name of the studio. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the name sounded familiar, though…

Turning around, you figured you’d do a little exploration yourself, despite how uneasy you felt. Jenna and Jackson weren’t having any luck with the Ouija Board; and honestly, it was just sad to watch them ask questions to nonexistent ghosts.

Instead of watching their pathetic attempts at spiritual communication, you instead headed down the left hallway, finding an animator’s desk in a little space at the end. Beside it was a cutout of a cartoon character that you didn’t recognize, but judging from all the posters scattered on the walls, you’d hazard a guess that this was the infamous Dancing Demon, Bendy.

“Guess this Joey guy wanted to try his luck against Disney.” You mused to yourself, not missing how reminiscent this devilish character was of Mickey Mouse, or Bimbo the Dog, or Felix the Cat; or literally any 30’s cartoon mascot, for that matter. “Doesn’t look like things worked out though, huh?”

Sparing a second glance at the desk, you turned and entered the room behind it, leading into a larger animation room with plenty more desks and old lightboxes.

It wasn’t until you saw some lightboxes turned on that you realised that all the light fixtures were up and working, which only served to baffle you. This place had to be at least ninety years old and, again, abandoned for decades. How the hell was all of the electricals still intact and working? Where was the power coming from?

Looking over the papers on the desks, you found that a lot of them still had drawings on them, and supplies could still be found on the shelves and desktops. Inkwells, pens, brushes… Why wasn’t any of this cleaned up before the studio had closed down?

Many questions filled your mind, but you weren’t exactly sure you wanted to stick around to find any answers.

There was a certain wrongness to this place – besides the working lights and stocked supplies, of course. No, there was something else about this place… and something told you that it wasn’t ghosts or spirits. It was something darker, something much more sinister, hiding in the shadows; but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

You wanted out of this place, and now.

Turning and leaving the animation room with haste, you called for everyone to pack up and come back as you entered the main room. Jenna and Jackson were still there, but Sarah and Charlie were still gone.

“Have they been back yet?” You asked, straining to keep your voice sounding calmer than you felt.

“It’s only been like, five minutes.” Jackson said, putting away the Ouija Board.

“Well pack up, we’re leaving. Now.” You stated, pulling your car keys from your pocket to make your point all the more clear.

“Wait, what?” Jenna sputtered out, “Already? No way-”

“Yes way, get ready and wait for us by the door.”

“But-”

“But _nothing!_ ” You snapped, yelling at the two teenagers. “This place is seriously bad news; I don’t care if this is a ‘ghost goldmine’ or whatever. We’re leaving now – no ifs, ands, or buts.”

After ensuring the two had started cleaning up their equipment, you started walking down to where you saw Sarah and Charlie go. As you turned the corner, however, you stalled briefly when writing on the wall caught your eye. You felt that icy shiver down your spine again, but you forced yourself to believe that Charlie had written it as a joke. They always had a sick sense of humour, after all. It had to be them.

Still, the words “Dreams come true” lingered on in your mind as you searched for your sister and her friend. You continued straight down the hallway, only briefly debating whether you should check an open room. No, you pressed forward, turning past a chart on the wall and stepping over a pipe, and finding… a boarded-up doorway, with the sign “Ink Machine” above it.

You squinted past the boards, looking into the room and seeing a balcony overlooking a set of chains linked to a pulley system of some sort. Was it an elevator, maybe? But where was the supposed ink machine – and honestly, what the hell was it even for?

The moment you stepped closer to get a better look however, was the moment that everything went to shit.

A giant horned _thing_ burst from a black puddle inside the room, right on the other side of the boarded doorway. It reached a skeletal hand through the boards, swiping at your face and causing you too fall back, and screaming as it began crawling through the gaps of the wooden boards. Your heart beat like a heavy drum in our chest as you scrambled to your feet, nearly tripping over the pipe on the floor in your attempt to get away.

You saw Sarah and Charlie run in from the adjacent hallway that you had passed by before, and you yelled at them to run the moment your eyes landed on them. They froze when they saw what was behind you, prompting you to push them in the direction of the door, shoving them and screaming at them to move when they stalled.

Finally, it seemed to clock in their minds and the three of you were booking it back to the entrance. You clutched your car keys tight in your hand, feeling the metal dig into your palms and keeping you grounded as adrenaline rushed through your body.

Chancing a glance behind you as you passed the wall message, you saw the thing limping toward the three of you, a black liquid coating the walls and seeping from between the floorboards. It was slow, seemingly in no hurry, and its sick, crooked smile mocked you as you fled.

“Get out!” You yelled as you made it to the main room where Jenna and Jackson stood by the hall leading to the exit. Making sure all four of them were ahead of you, you followed close behind them, ready to burst through the door and drive away and never look back.

The next thing you knew, the floor collapsed under your feet, and your eyes locked with Sarah. Time seemed to stop for a moment as you dropped your keys, sending them splayed out at Sarah’s feet as she screamed your name, reaching back for you as the floor swallowed you up. Another hoarse scream escaped your throat as you plummeted down, down, down, before finally landing with a splash in a deep pool of blackness. It broke your fall a bit, but you still felt the burning pain as your body impacted the hard ground.

You shivered at the cold liquid, sputtering and yelling in pain as you struggled to stand up. Through the ringing in your ears, you could hear Sarah yell down the hole you had fallen through. You couldn’t quite make out the words she was saying exactly, but that didn’t stop you from shouting back at her.

“Get out of here!” You wanted to add “dumbass,” but time was of the essence, as you were certain that thing was still probably trying to get to them, and you doubted a hole in the floor would stop it. “Just go!”

The ringing finally died down, and you could hear the faint jingle of keys as footsteps from above faded with the slamming of a door. At least it didn’t take much convincing on your part to get them to leave now. Of course, if they had listened to you in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened.

Whatever. They were gone, and you were down here covered in… whatever this black stuff was. Paint, maybe? Well, paint or not, it was time for you to find a new way out of this place.

Looking around, you briefly debated pulling the shelves and chairs blocking a nearby door, but opted for checking out the easily accessible open hallway on the other side of the small room you fell in. Something in the corner of your eye caught your attention, however, prompting you to investigate.

It was a large, old cassette player sitting on another intact shelf. Other miscellaneous items could be found, but it was the tape that intrigued you the most. So, giving into your curiosity, you pressed play. And, surprisingly enough, it worked and played the tape that had been left inside it.

_“It’s dark and it’s cold, and it’s stuck in behind every single wall now. In some places, I swear this godforsaken ink is clear up to my knees!”_

So, the stuff you were standing in was ink, and whoever this person was on the recording sounded like he could’ve done well to cut back on the cigarettes. Honestly, his voice sounded like sandpaper.

_“Whoever thought that these pipes could hold up under this kind of strain either knows something about pressure I don’t, or he’s some kind of idiot.”_

Ah, the ink was in the pipes. That definitely sounded safe and completely OSHA-compliant.

_“But the real worst part about all this are them noises the system makes. Like a dying dog on its last legs. Make no mistake, this place, this… machine… this whole darn thing, it just isn’t natural.”_

Yeah, and you were able to figure that out from just looking at this place. Too bad no one listened to you.

_“You can bet, I won’t be taking any more repair jobs from Mister Joey Drew.”_

This guy had the right idea. Nothing about this place was good, running or abandoned; this studio should have never been founded in the first place. This “Joey” character… you didn’t like him in the slightest. He was probably dead by now, but you hoped he at least paid dearly when he passed for bringing this abomination into existence.

Turning around and wading through the waist-deep ink, you pulled your phone out from your pocket, thankful for the waterproof case that had protected it from the ink you had been submerged in. You still had a decent charge, the time was 10:43PM, and you had no reception.

Just great.

Turning off your phone, you pocketed it again and finding a stairwell leading down deeper into the ink. You huffed, looking around – there had to be some other way out, or some maybe something to drain the stairway. You weren’t exactly fond of the thought of spelunking through thousands of gallons of ink and probably drowning in the process. What a way to go, though.

Looking back into the room you were previously in, you saw a valve on one of the larger pipes in the room. Deciding to try your luck, you made your way over and with an immense amount of effort, you were able to twist the turnwheel, and watched as the ink flooding the area drained quicker than you thought it would.

Breathing a heavy sigh, you looked down at your stained clothes, grimacing as the fabric of your pants stuck to your legs. And you wore the one pair you had that actually fit without a belt, too.

Honestly, if you didn’t die down here, you’ll make sure Sarah wished you did.

Walking back out the room, you ignored the way the soles of your shoes squished with each step, leaving behind inky footsteps as you descended down the stairs. After two flights, you let out a loud exasperated groan as you saw another flood, with the valve partially submerged in the corner of the stairway.

Just how much ink was there in this place, and why not have it so one valve emptied the entire stairway instead of draining it in sections? True, you were no plumber, and as such you weren’t entirely sure _how_ to make it work that way, but it sounded possible and it would make it so much easier for you. 

Stepping into the ink once again, you grimaced at the feeling of the ice cold ink seeping into your shoes and rising to your waist. Luckily, it only took a few steps to get to the turnwheel, allowing you to drain the flood.

Letting out a tired huff, you hugged yourself in a pathetic attempt to warm your shivering form. You were cold, exhausted, and your body screamed at you for pushing yourself after falling what must’ve been fifteen metres, at least.

Still, you pressed on. You’d rest when you were out of this godforsaken place, and far away from the inky thing that you saw in the ink machine room. As long as you were here, you were in danger, and you didn’t like the thought of dying to whatever that monster was.

Pushing forward, you stumbled down the stairs and fought back another cry of frustration when you saw that the stairs led into another flooded room. You grit your teeth, stepping into the ink and wading your way through, finding the valve in the corner beside a closed door. It seemed that whatever higher power there was only seemed to laugh at your struggles, however, as you tripped on unseen debris and fell forward into the ink. Unable to catch yourself, your body was once again fully submerged in the ink and you cursed your sister and her stupid, stupid friends for dragging you here.

You coughed as you stood, shivering and trembling as you felt globs of ink drip down the back of your neck. Wiping as much of it off your face as possible, you gripped the turnwheel of the valve and twisted it, finding some difficulty as your hands slid due to the ink still coating your skin. But you managed it, and the ink drained away, leaving nothing but a few puddles.

Opening the door, you ignored the acidic taste of the ink on your lips and the burning ache you felt in your muscles as you walked on. There was more wall writing on the right, this time reading “The creator lied to us,” though your focus was on the open hallway on the other side of the small room.

Broken boards and barrels littered the corridor, but you managed to stumble past it all, and found an open room filled with coffins and candles. You felt your heart drop into your stomach, your legs moving on their own as you staggered forward. Your eyes fell on the circle drawn in ink on the floor – it wasn’t a pentagram, no, that would be too predictable, too cliché. You were no alchemist yourself, but you had watched enough _Fullmetal Alchemist_ when you were younger to know an alchemy circle when you saw one.

Stopping in the doorway, you felt the ground tremble and you immediately braced yourself against the doorframe to stay standing. God, you didn’t like this. You wanted to go back, to get out; maybe you could climb back up the hole you fell down – you wouldn’t know until you tried.

But going back was out of the question, as when you turned around you saw none other than the monster from before, looming over you with that wide toothy Cheshire smile. Your voice caught in your throat and your breath hitched, and in a split second you were running for your life through the door across the coffin-filled room, descending deeper into the studio you found yourself trapped within.


	2. Long, Long Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah makes a horrifying discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Surreal nightmares, collective amnesia

The drive home was dead silent as Sarah drove your car through the dark streets, dropping off her friends at their homes. They all muttered a solemn “thanks” as they left, all still in shock at what they had witnessed in the abandoned studio and who they had lost. 

The radio of your car droned on, playing some new popular and overplayed song that every station would have on five times every hour. She drove aimlessly through the streets, not paying attention to the time as her mind slowly processed the danger you were in. You had fallen deep into that studio, with no guarantee that you weren’t injured, with that… that monster, and god knows what else down there.

What if there were more of those things? What if there were worse monsters down there? What if you couldn’t get out of there? Even if you weren’t caught by monsters, would you starve to death? Die of thirst?

Why did she leave you behind?

_Why didn’t she listen to you?_

Finally, she pulled up to her home, staring at the darkened windows and the front door. Her parents were asleep by now – one look at the digital clock on the dash said it was 1:26. She was somewhat relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain everything now, when her brain is frazzled and exhausted. She needed to rest, but something told her she wouldn’t be sleeping soundly tonight. Not after everything that happened.

Turning off the car and pulling the keys from the ignition, Sarah opened the driver side door and got out of the car. She nearly collapsed as she stood up, not realizing how weak her legs felt as they trembled beneath her.

It was then that the tears started flowing.

She clutched the open car door, leaning on it to help keep her balanced as she stood, crying out for you. You could be dead already, and she wouldn’t know. No one would know. You were trapped down there, _alone_ , with a monster.

Sniffling and wiping her cheeks on the back of her sleeve, she closed the car door and locked it before walking up the front porch. The keys jangled as she tried to find the house key amongst the rest, her shaky fingers finally finding the right key and unlocking the front door. She opened it slowly, stepping in and locking it shut behind her.

She didn’t have to turn on the lights to know where she was going, having lived there for so long. Toeing off her shoes, she made her way quietly upstairs toward her bedroom. On her way there, she passed the closed door to your own room, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at it.

Gentle snoring could be heard from her parent’s bedroom further down the hall, indicating that neither had been disturbed by her extremely late entrance. Sighing softly, Sarah simply entered her room without a word, closing her door to block out the noise before collapsing on her bed, not bothering to change out of her clothes.

Her earlier thoughts about not getting any sleep proved to be true, as all she could think of was your face as you fell, the sound of your scream, and the wide taunting smile of that inky beast. Tears returned to her eyes, soaking through the fabric of her pillowcase until she eventually cried herself into unconsciousness.

Images of ink plagued her dreams as she ran through sepia-toned hallways, the black liquid oozing down the walls until the darkness of it all consumed her body. She swam within the blackened sea, barely able to keep her head above the waves to breathe. It stuck to her skin, and each wave threatened to drag her down further below the surface as she fought with all her might. Despite all her best efforts, a giant gloved hand rose from the depths, looming threateningly over her before it was brought down on her tiny body.

Awaking with a start, Sarah gasped, sucking in lungfulls of air as she looked frantically around her bedroom. It was just a dream – a nightmare induced by recent trauma, but all it did was remind her of the hell she threw you into.

Hunching over and placing her face in her hands, she berated herself for being so careless. For ignoring all your warnings and your fears. She was stupid, and ignorant, and a fool above all else. When she saw you again, she swore she’d never undermine you or your concerns ever again.

_If_ she saw you again.

After a few deep breaths to calm herself, she slowly stood up from her bed, mentally preparing herself to tell her parents about what had transpired the previous night. As she changed out of yesterday’s clothes, however, she cast a glance at some of the photos on the shelf nearby-

And found that you were missing from each and every one.

Sarah froze at that, staring at the pictures and portraits with wide eyes. She blinked a few times, convinced that her nightmares were causing her to see things, but no. The spaces where you had been in the photographs were either blank or replaced by _her_ in pictures where you had been the only one present.

No, no. This had to be some sick prank, but… but why? Why would someone do something like this? It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t clever, and the timing of it all, after you had fallen into the studio…

She reached forward, gingerly picking up one of the pictures. It had been a family portrait with all four of you, taken when she was twelve years old. Running her fingers over the area you had once been, smiling, she found that yes, it was the original photograph and no, it hadn’t been tampered with.

Putting the portrait back, she then picked up a selfie Sarah had taken of you both from when she was fourteen, now only of her. Taking the picture out of the cheap frame she had it in, she flipped it around to look at the back, where you both had written your names in glittery gel pen. Sarah’s name was still there – “Sarah Emily.” But you? Your name was gone, faded away into complete obscurity.

Were all off the photos in the house like this? Had you just been erased from all your physical records of existence? No, that… that couldn’t be right. But at the same time…

_“…A weird old studio that no one remembers? No records of its existence in the city archives?”_

No, it couldn’t work like that. This wasn’t – this wasn’t the fucking _Magnus Archives_ , for god’s sake. This was real life, and real life didn’t work like that.

…Did it?

Shaking her head and putting the photo back, Sarah swiftly changed into a clean set of clothes. She left her room, hurrying to where your bedroom was just a few steps down the hall, opening the door with a force that nearly caused it to slam on the stop spring against the wall.

It was… _like_ your room, but different. It was set up like a bedroom, your dresser, bed, and the bookshelf were all in the same spots as they’d always been. The books you read, the pictures on the dresser, it was all the same. But it was all clean – _too_ clean. It was like you hadn’t slept in there, like you never did.

Like you didn’t exist.

She was dreaming. This was all just one of those damn nightmares where you _think_ you’re awake, but you aren’t.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t wake up. Pinching herself, pulling her hair, willing every part of her consciousness to wake up from this nightmare; it was all for naught. _Because she wasn’t dreaming._

Noise from the kitchen alerted her that her parents were awake, probably getting breakfast ready. Did they remember you? Or was she the only one cursed with the memory of you, because _she_ was the one who had decided your fate?

Closing the door to what _should_ have been your bedroom, she stepped out into the hallway, walking slowly down the stairs, not missing how you had vanished from all the photos on the wall that you should have been in. Smiling. Happy. Remembered.

But you weren’t there.

And when she walked into the kitchen, her mother and step-father said their “good mornings!” with their usual everyday enthusiasm, as if nothing was wrong. As if you weren’t missing from each and every photograph in the household.

“Good morning.” Sarah responded to their greetings, her voice hoarse from crying so late into the night. This didn’t go unnoticed by her parents, of course, as they both looked at her with worried eyes.

“What’s wrong, Sarah?” Her mother asked, placing the coffee pot back in its spot in the coffee maker. “Did you’re one-man ghost hunt last night go wrong?”

_‘Right, she failed to tell her parents that she'd be going with the friends they didn't approve of... yeah, it couldn’t have gone more wrong,_ ’ She thought to herself, trying to find a casual way to bring you up. Finally, she settled on deflecting the question and asking if they had heard from you at all today. If she could, she’d burst into tears at the blank and unfamiliar expressions she got when they heard your name, saying they hadn’t, and inquiring into who you were.

“Are they a new ghost-hunting buddy?” Her step-father asked, setting his cell phone down on the table he was seated at and sipping his coffee.

“Kinda… Uh, look, nevermind. I was just wondering, is all. Sorry to bother you about it.” Sarah managed out. She’d be crying again if she could, but she didn’t even have the energy for that anymore.

“Where did you go again?” Her mother spoke up once Sarah had gone quiet, “For your ghost hunt last night, I mean.”

“Oh, just…” Sarah paused, trying to think up a quick and clever lie to keep them from knowing that she and you were going where your father explicitly forbade you from going. She had a feeling that, even with you gone from his memories, he still wouldn’t like the thought of her going to that studio. “The old cabin on the hill. I didn’t find much. I almost fell and nearly sprained an ankle, so I had to end it early.”

“Oh, really? Well, it sounds like one of those ghosts didn’t like having you around.” Her mom responded, laughing lightheartedly as she sat down at the table as well. It was then that her step-dad spoke up, picking his phone back up and looking down at it as he addressed Sarah.

“Your mother and I will be heading out in a bit here soon,” He said, pausing to read something on his phone screen. “Aunt Annabelle is going to down to Mexico for a vacation, and needs someone to help look after grandpa while she’s gone.”

Sarah nodded, then realised that she was still awkwardly standing in the kitchen entrance, and moved to make herself a bowl of cereal. She felt vaguely nauseous, and didn’t feel like eating breakfast, but figured it would help keep her parents from suspecting something might be wrong. She’s seen the movies, she’s listened to the horror podcasts.

When something or someone is wiped from everyone’s memory and only one person notices, nobody believes them; and they only end up sounding crazy to whoever they tell.

Her parents – _your_ parents – talked casually about news and the weather forecast like it was any other day. That was the most terrifying part of all of this; watching as the people who raised you talked and went on as if you never existed. As if you hadn’t been a staple in their lives, as if you were never even their child to begin with. You had been such a big part of their lives, of _her_ life, and they forgot about you just like that.

When she sat down at the table with them and started slowly eating her bowl of cereal, she watched them closely out of the corner of her eye. There had to be something, some small hint or indication that you were still there in the deepest parts of their memory, that you were still remembered somehow.

But there was nothing.

After a few minutes, the two stood from the table, getting ready to leave to pick up her great grandfather. She had met him a few times before, at the family gatherings that were held once or twice each year. He was a quiet, frail man, though that was a given for someone who was nearly a hundred years old – maybe more? She couldn’t remember his exact age. She didn’t know a lot about him, just that he was her step-father’s grandfather. That was it.

She called out her goodbye to her parents as they left to pick him up from her great aunt’s, leaving her alone in the house with a half-empty bowl of cereal. She swallowed the last spoonful she had taken, and finally allowed herself to fall apart.

How could this have happened? It was only one thing, one place, one mistake.

Shoving her bowl of cereal away from her, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and brought up your contact. The contact was still there; your number under your name, but the picture she had for the contact was blank and conversation record she had for your texts were gone. Pursing her lips, she pressed the “call” button, and put it on speaker. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but whatever it was, she didn’t want her phone that close to her face for it.

Her breath was held as she heard it ring in her hand. Would you pick up? Would there be static?

Then she heard the dial-up noise, and the stunted beeping followed by the familiar automated voice message.

_“We’re sorry, but the number you are trying to call is out of service-”_

She pressed “end call” before she could hear any more of that damn message.

No, you _had_ existed. She knew you did, she remembered you. She annoyed you every day, sent you memes while you were at work, bugged you to let her use your car. You were her step…

Step… sibling.

Goddammit, she was forgetting. She couldn’t remember your goddamn _gender_ for god’s sake – were you her brother? Sister? Both? Neither? She didn’t know anymore.

She didn’t want to forget you. Not like everyone else had. She couldn’t forget you, not after what she had done to you.

Sarah owed it to you to remember you. _She had to._

Scrolling down in her contacts, she stopped when she found Jenna in her list and pressed call. Normally she’d just text her, but she wouldn’t risk waiting hours for a response. She needed to talk _now._

_“…Hello?”_ Came Jenna’s groggy voice through the speaker of Sarah’s phone. _“Dude, it’s like 9:30. On a Sunday. Why are you-”_

“I know, Jenna, I just- look.” Sarah huffed, scratching at her scalp in frantic frustration. “I know this is gonna sound weird, but what do you remember about last night?”

_“Last night?”_ Jenna paused at that. _“I was playing Stardew with Jackson and Charlie. Why?”_

“…What?”

_“I was up late playing Stardew Valley. Sarah, are you okay? You sound like shit.”_

“No, no!” Sarah’s voice rose in tone as her frustration peaked, and she stood up from her chair, her nails digging into her scalp. “No, we went to that fucking studio! For a ghost hunt! You were there; you did a Ouija Board session with Jackson!”

_“Are you high? This early?”_

“No!!!” She practically screamed, her body trembling as she lashed out. “I'm serious, Jenna! We went on a ghost hunt with my step-sibling and they _fell_ and we left them _behind_ and-”

_“Sarah.”_

“What?!”

_“Since when did you have a step-sibling?”_

Sarah nearly broke her phone screen with how hard she pressed the “end call” button. Why was _she_ the only one who remembered? Jenna had watched you fall, Jackson and Charlie too. Why didn’t they remember you too? Was it because it was her fault? Was it because it would hurt her the most, to forget you slowly as her memories of you slowly faded away?

Pocketing her phone and picking up her bowl of now-soggy cereal, she tossed away what she didn’t eat, leaving the bowl and spoon in the sink before retreating back to her room. As her door slammed shut, she practically dove to where she kept her school bag and retrieved her most-used notebook, along with her favourite glittery pen – the one that _you_ had gifted her for her thirteenth birthday. She wrote your name on the back of the cover, refusing to forget it as she repeated it in her mind, over and over.

Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe this whole this was sending her over the edge and driving her insane.

But she knew she was right. She _was_ right, she _had_ a step-sibling, and they were stuck in the studio that she had led them into. They’d find a way out of there somehow, they’d come back home, and she’d be here, waiting for them.

She didn’t know how long she had been staring at the name she had written, but apparently it was long enough, as she heard the front door to the house unlock and open up. Her parents could be heard, their voices muffled before she heard her name called.

“Sarah! Could you please help Grandpa up to the guest room?”

They didn’t have a guest room. But she could wager a guess that they meant _your_ room.

Letting out a sigh, she stood up, leaving her notebook open and allowing her gaze to linger over the name she had written before she turned and left to help her parents like they asked.

Walking down the stairs, she watched as her step-father stood beside her great-grandfather, who was leaning heavily on his walking cane. The front door was still open, and she could hear her mother back at the car.

“Here grandpa,” Sarah said once she was down, placing a hand on his back and leading him over to the stairs. “Let’s get you to your room so you can relax. It must’ve been a long drive.”

She impressed herself with how easily she was able to act like nothing was wrong.

Her great grandfather smiled kindly at her, following along with her, walking slowly up the stairs and taking them one at a time. She waited patiently, allowing him to take all the time he needed to keep steady. It took a while, but they were able to get to the top of the stairs with no incident.

Opening the door to your room for the second time that morning, she ushered her great grandpa in, where he entered and allowed her to lead him to the chair in the corner, right by the window. He let out a strained breath as he sat down and relaxed, placing his cane off to the side and leaned it against the wall nearby. He looked up at her with great kindness, before seeming fixated on her face. He brought a shaky hand up to his own, pointing to a spot on the side of his nose as he spoke in a quiet voice.

“You’ve got a little… ink…. Right here….”

She hesitated at that, thoroughly rubbing at her nose with her fingers. Sure enough, there was the faint smudge of blackness on her hand, indicating that there had been a bit of ink still on her face.

Further proof that what happened last night _had_ actually happened.

Then, for a moment, she could have sworn she heard him say your name. She blinked, looking back at him as he stared at her with a serious, saddened gaze.

“Grandpa Henry? Sorry, did you say something?”

He took opened his mouth, his eyes never leaving Sarah’s.

“Where did you go…?”


	3. The Telltale Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleeing away from the monster that lurked within the studio, you soon found yourself stuck within the Music Department.

_Run._

That was the only thought that crossed through your mind as you barreled down stairs and through the winding halls of the studio. Sprinting past effigies of a smiling cartoon demon and past coffins with ink leaking out of them, you ran from the grinning abomination that trapped you down here in the first place. You could hear a heart beat loudly in your ears, but you were certain that it didn’t belong to you.

Stumbling upon a flooded corridor, you hesitated only for a brief second before jumping into the flood, wading through the knee-deep ink as fast as you could. Every bone and every muscle screamed at you as you forced yourself to keep going, tripping over yourself as you stumbled out of the flood of ink and kept moving forward. You didn’t dare look back as you ducked right, nearly slipping and falling on your slimy, ink-soaked shoes as you darted over broken boards and through an open doorway into a wide open room.

According to the giant sign with the big bold letters, you now found yourself in the Music Department.

A loud hiss snapped you out of your thoughts, immediately reminding you of the danger you were currently in. You bit back a cough as your throat and lungs burned, stumbling on tired legs as you hurried down the hallway on the left, and hiding away in the first room you found.

It was small and empty, save for a music stand and a large pipe organ, but you quickly decided it was far better than nothing at all. Quickly, you closed the door behind you and nearly collapsed onto the floor, leaning your weight against the cracked wood as if that could stop a seven-foot-tall monster made of ink from breaking through and killing you.

You could still hear it. That loud, beating heart that most definitely wasn’t yours, as dark tendrils creeped under the door and settled around you. It overpowered your own thoughts, thrumming like a drum against your skull as you bit back a cry. You were so certain this thing knew where you were, and your suspicions were confirmed as you heard something bang against the old, cracked wood of the door you hid behind.

This is it. You were certain now, that this was how you’d die. Alone and scared in an old abandoned studio, with no one around to see it happen. _No one around to remember you._

Tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to the beating of the beast’s heart, staring down at the inky tendrils curling around your feet. You swallowed thickly, mouth dry as you quietly panted, trying to steady your breathing as this monster lingered outside.

God, if it was gonna kill you then why wouldn’t it just hurry up and _do it_ already?

After a few more moments of tense silence, you heard a quiet shuffling sound as the tendrils slowly receded and the sound of the beating heart faded away. You were confused, of course – why didn’t it just break down the door and kill you? It seemed more than capable of doing so, after all. You soon decided not to question it though, instead thankful that you were still alive, and that you still had a chance of finding a way out of this place.

However, a new and frightening thought popped up in your mind, causing you blood to run cold.

_What if it’s still out there, waiting for you to open the door? What if it’s waiting for you to feel safe and drop your guard before swooping in and finishing the job?_

Pulling your knees up to your chest, you wrapped your arms around them and hugged them close, ignoring the feeling of your clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin and of ice-cold ink chilling you to the bone. Good to know that even if you survived that monstrosity, you were still likely to die to ink poisoning.

No, it’s okay, this is fine… this place might be big and confusing, but there had to be another way out somewhere. These big studios often had more than one exit, especially for fire safety reasons. And so what if there was a big spooky monster? It was only the one monster; you could handle that just fine, right?

Right.

Taking the moment to rest, you wondered to yourself if you might be able to find any working water taps that hadn’t been broken or contaminated by ink somehow. There had to be some bathrooms somewhere, or maybe an industrial sink in one of the janitor’s closets.

Okay, game plan. Explore around the level whilst avoiding the ink monster, and try to find an exit. How hard could that be? Hell, maybe if you were lucky, you’d be able to find a map or floorplan or something. All huge buildings like this had to have one _somewhere,_ right?

Taking a deep breath, you managed to pull yourself up to your feet, standing on shaky legs as you leaned against the wall to help steady yourself. Taking a few more moments to steel yourself, you turned around to open the door. Despite the ache in your muscles and the pain shooting through your ankles (you’re still not quite sure how your legs didn’t break on impact from the earlier fall down), you got ready to leave the room.

Poking your head out, you looked around for any signs of the monster. As you carefully checked the corridor, you neither saw nor heard any trace of its existence. No inky black footsteps, no tendrils lingering on the walls… it was safe.

For now, at least.

Stepping out of the room, you opted to go right, quietly walking toward the sign indicating the office of the Music Director.

“Sammy Lawrence, huh…?” You wondered aloud to yourself, though you kept your voice down so as to not alert the monster to your presence.

For some reason, seeing the actual name of a person made you feel… weird. You weren’t entirely sure why, but it never truly dawned on you that this was an actual place where actual people once worked. Before now, this was just an old place you were warned to stay away from, but now… Now you had a name to one of the many people who must’ve worked here.

Speaking of, now you were really curious as to what happened here. It wasn’t something you thought of before, even when you literally came to investigate the place with your step sister. Granted, that was to look for ghosts, not to solve the mystery of the missing workers.

Just what happened to all the people who worked here? Did they all just agree to leave and pretend this place never existed?

Glancing around at the open closet in the corner and the clock-in to your right, you stepped closer toward the office – only to pause when you saw a tape recorder on the shelf directly across the open doorway of the office.

You were about to leave it alone and continue on into the office, telling yourself that it probably didn’t work. But then again, _nothing_ in this studio should really be working, and yet it still did somehow. But then again…

Glancing back down the hallway, you watched in silence for a few moments, anticipating the monster to return at any second.

No, you couldn’t waste any time – and you definitely didn’t wanna risk alerting that thing to your location. This wasn’t some horror game where you were safe during cutscenes and scripted events, this was reality and your life was in danger every second you remained within this studio.

So, you opted to ignore the tape, instead heading into the office and looking around there. There was a pump switch that you decided against messing with, a chair and a desk, some more ominous writing on the wall…

_It’s time to believe._

You definitely didn’t want to think too much about that statement, instead busying yourself with searching the desk. There was an old radio, an inkwell and some sheets of music… and, oddly enough, blueprints to some kind of machine. Now that was definitely strange; what were a mechanic’s blueprints doing in the _Music Director’s_ office of all places?

Shaking your head, you pushed the question aside and continued searching. If there were blueprints then there had to be a floorplan _somewhere,_ right?

There was none, unfortunately. Checking the drawers and searching the office proved fruitless, as the only thing you could find was sheets of music and maybe a few sketches of cartoons, but that was it. The only things that really stuck out were two books on the floor lying nearby – one of which was inside the waste bin, so you didn’t bother looking much into that one. _The Illusion of Living_ honestly just sounded like a knockoff of Disney’s _The Illusion of Life_ , so you could at least get an idea of what the discarded book entailed.

The book that _did_ intrigue you, however, was lying spread open, as if it had been knocked off the desk and never put it back. Checking the cover, you found it to be a plain black hardcover with no distinguishable title or features before opening it to the pages it was left open on. It was a poem- _The Raven,_ by Edgar Allen Poe.

That was definitely… interesting, you supposed. Flipping through the book and skimming the pages revealed that the untitled book was a collection of poems written by the late poet.

“Guess mister Sammy Lawrence was a Poe fan.” You muttered to yourself, closing the book and placing it on the desk. “Who knew?”

Probably everyone, for all _you_ knew. It wasn’t like you had ever met the guy, and you doubted you ever would – if he was still alive he’d probably have to be your great-grandfather’s age. But you doubted that still, as not everyone managed to live long enough to see their 90’s, much less their _100’s_ like he somehow managed to do. You swore your great-grandfather must’ve been immortal or something.

Leaving the office with a sigh and no particularly useful information, you turned and made your way over to the closet to check it real quick. It was small, and the shelves didn’t have much besides a set of keys and another tape recording. You were about to ignore it, but… with the lack of clues from the Music Director’s office, you were _kinda_ desperate for some sort of clue that might lead you out of here.

So you closed the closet door just in case the monster overheard you, quietly hoping it still wouldn’t be able to get you through a closed door.

Leaning against the now-closed closet door, you listened quietly for the creature’s raspy breathing or beating heart. When there was nothing, you promptly hit the play button on the recording, and found that like many things in this studio, the tape recordings actually somehow still worked – and a smooth, masculine voice could be heard as it played.

_“Every artistic person needs a sanctuary. Joey drew has his, and I have mine. To enter, you need only play my favourite song.”_

You couldn’t help but feel your face falter at those words. God, who was this guy? Why would you record directions to your sanctuary and put the tape in the janitor’s closet where anyone could get to – assuming you didn’t want anyone in your “sanctuary?”

_“The banjo playfully clucks. The piano delicately calls. The drum thunders in triumph. The piano returns again in graceful harmony. Sing my song, and my sanctuary will open to you.”_

“Doesn’t sound like there’s much singing necessary if there’s only instruments involved…” You mumbled as the tape cut out. Whoever this guy was, he sounded kinda weird. He had a nice voice though, you’d give him that much.

Picking up the set of keys in case they might be useful, you tucked them into your ink-soaked pocket before turning around to open the closet door and leave. When you went to turn the knob however, you soon found that it wouldn’t turn. Pausing and squinting down through the dim light at the doorknob, you were able to deduce that no, there was nothing physically wrong with it. So you went to turn it again.

Except it still wouldn’t budge.

_”…Are you fucking kidding me-“_


	4. The Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lone prophet wanders back to a familiar place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been... five months since the last chapter? I have literally nothing to say for myself tbh, other than I hope you all like the chapter despite the long wait ^^;
> 
> Oh, and happy new year! I hope 2021 is boring and uneventful

Sammy Lawrence liked to think of himself as a patient man. If he even was a man, at least. Either way, he was very good at waiting. After all, he only waited what must have been years for his lord to return, to grace him with His presence, to set him and His ever-loyal followers free…

Only to kill him, and free the offering that he worked so hard to gift to Him.

It was, quite frankly, an insult to everything he did, and an insult to his very existence. He’d done it all for his lord, all for his followers, and all he got in return was a journey back to the inky darkness he struggled to escape from, the _one place_ in this studio that he hated more than his own body.

He wanted revenge, of course, but vengeance is far from an easy feat. Sammy could never hope to send the Ink Demon to the puddles – that was an impossible task for even the strongest creatures of the studio. He considered going after the sheep he’d initially offered to the Ink Demon – but alas, he was being guarded by that angel and her guard dog. Individually, perhaps he could fend them off and take the sheep for himself, but they always stuck together like glue.

It was annoying, really.

And it also served a reminder as to how lonely the life of the prophet was.

He had his followers, of course. He was always there to comfort and console them in their times of need, providing them with safety as he led them to hidden areas in the studio – places where neither angel nor demon tread.

But no one was there to comfort him. Through all his trials and tribulations, he had nobody to lean on. He had no one to look to for support, for he could not show weakness to his followers. They wouldn’t follow a weak, broken, disgraced prophet.

Despite being surrounded by others, he was alone.

But then, one day, he heard it.

The sound of solid footsteps on the wooden floors above. The sound of voices, loud and clear through the studio’s pipes and vents.

There were real, live humans in the studio. For the first time since his sheep had entered, there were people.

The Ink Demon didn’t like that, of course – he couldn’t risk having anything ruin his story. He chased them out; he couldn’t have them interfere-

But one of them stayed behind.

_One of them was lost._

Sammy wasn’t concerned, of course. Why would he be? This was a stranger, someone who didn’t belong and would inevitably perish at the hands of the Ink Demon, as they should. If he was to go searching for them, then it was only so he could present them as a new offering to the Ink Demon; a final attempt to appease his lord.

Yes. That was it. That was definitely his one and only reason to look for the one who remained.

Sammy returned to the Music Department for the first time in… truthfully, a very long time. He hadn’t been there since his last ritual; the failed sacrifice. He wasn’t sure how to feel, in all honesty. A part of him felt happy to be back where he was so sure he belonged – this was what home must feel like, right? A feeling of safety and belonging, of being where he was meant to be.

But, at the same time, he felt as though he was far from home. How could this place be where he belonged? It was where he found that sheep; the sheep who intruded his sanctuary, the sheep who brought the Ink Demon’s wrath upon him. What if the Demon returned to do more harm? He shouldn’t be up here, he should be back down in the studio’s depths, watching over the Lost Ones, and making sure they’re safe.

He hated feeling like this. He hated feeling so unsure, so conflicted with himself. He missed feeling certain in what he was doing, because he believed that he was doing his lord’s bidding. That everything he did was for the benefit of Him and his followers.

But now he didn’t know what to think.

His lord had betrayed him and abandoned him. He spent so long doing what He would have wanted, that without him, he felt he no longer served a purpose. Even if he did find the one left behind, would that be enough to convince the Ink Demon that he was a worthy prophet? Would that be enough to convince the Ink Demon to free him?

No. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. All that would accomplish is getting sent back to the puddles – those torturous, wretched puddles, where the wailing and screaming never ceased-

He couldn’t go back there again. If he did, he wasn’t sure if he’d return. And if he did, he’d doubt he’d make it out as himself.

The Ink Demon would not accept another offering, though. That was one thing he was certain about. It didn’t work the first time, so it wouldn’t work now.

Wasn’t that what insanity was? Was he insane to even consider such a thing?

Perhaps.

It didn’t matter either way. Sanity wasn’t something one would require to survive down here, after all. Plenty of others seemed to be getting along just fine without it.

With a sigh as heavy as the axe in his hand, Sammy trudged through the Music Department. He didn’t want to stay for very long – he was just here to gather supplies and be on his way back to his flock. He didn’t need to ponder on whether or not this was where he belonged. Even if he did belong here, he couldn’t stay. He had things he needed to do, people he had to protect and keep in line.

Sheep don’t tend to themselves, after all.

Making his way down the corridor, he was about to descend down to the infirmary; if there was something he needed, it would likely be down there.

He stopped, however, when he heard a loud banging sound – like fists against wood. Solid fists, without the squelching or splattering sound that would accompany it if those fists belonged to a being made of ink.

Cautiously, Sammy looked down the hall, and after another moment of listening, found that the noise was coming from inside the janitor’s closet beside his old office.

Was it the sheep? Had he returned to further desecrate what had once been his sanctuary?

Or was it the lost stranger, who’d miraculously escaped the Ink Demon’s clutches?

Pulling the keys from his pocket with his free hand, Sammy eyed the door as he quietly approached it. If it was the sheep, then the angel and her guard dog wouldn’t be far behind… and if it was the stranger, then no doubt the Ink Demon would close in on them quickly. He briefly considered leaving the door locked and moving along. That would likely be the better choice, no matter who it was behind that door.

But instead, for reasons that escaped him, he unlocked the door.

The pounding stopped as soon as the lock clicked, and though he often preferred the quiet, the silence felt deafening.

Steeling himself, he slowly opened the door…

_Oh._

Well, this was certainly new.


End file.
